


My Patience is a Medal

by Saucery



Series: The Genderfuck Collection [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), White Collar
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Federal Agents, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Alternate Universe - White Collar Fusion, Breaking and Entering, Crimes & Criminals, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Disguise, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Flirting, Genderbending, Government Agencies, Guns, Handcuffs, Happy Ending, Humor, Illegal Activities, Kissing, M/M, Mission Fic, Opposites Attract, Recovery, Robbery, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Seduction, Serious Injuries, Theft, Undercover, Unresolved Sexual Tension, White Collar Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:30:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale is a Special Agent in the White Collar division of the FBI, with a crack team consisting of Agents Argent and McCall and, more recently, the consulting art thief, Stiles Stilinski. Trouble is, Stilinski's in love with him. Or is it just another con?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [My Patience is a Medal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4836497) by [izumrudishe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izumrudishe/pseuds/izumrudishe)



> The title is from [this](http://www.sptzr.net/Translations/fishermen.htm) marvelous poem by Jean Genet.

* * *

 

Derek shuts the door behind himself, and manages, through sheer strength of will, not to sag against it. Or to turn around and punch his fist right through it.

It’s been a tough day. His latest perp is proving elusive, the lab techs seem to be snoozing over the evidence, and the higher-ups are acting like missish, prissy, stuck-up bitches with points to prove. The fact that over ninety percent of those points have to do with Derek keeping his job by informing them about what he’s doing isn’t even what’s pissing him off; what _is_ pissing him off is that they’ll red-tape anything he actually suggests to death, and he knows better than to waste his time getting goddamned signatures on all his goddamn requisition forms. It’s more efficient and effective to just wring some necks down at Supplies until they give him what he wants.

Is he being ‘forceful’? Is he being ‘deliberately insubordinate’? Is he being ‘intractable’ and ‘dangerous’?

Well, fuck it.

He is what he is. And he’s the best investigative agent they have, with the highest ever arrest rate, and he respects the command hierarchy, fuck you very much, so long as there’s some actual commanding going on. All those simpering idiots seem to know how to do is how to cock-block perfectly healthy initiative. And then castrate it. Fuckers.

He’s working off his tie with one hand while he deactivates his apartment’s internal alarm system with the other, but then he notices - it.

He _notices_ it, because it’s hot pink and about the size of a baby’s _head_ , and it’s -

It’s a lotus.

There’s an origami lotus on his coffee table.

An. Origami. Lotus.

It’s better than an origami rose in his bed, and that’s - not even a thought he would’ve been capable of having, before -

Before.

Derek stalks over to the paper monstrosity and grabs it, and... doesn’t rip it apart, for some reason.

For a very good reason. The crafty bastard is totally capable of leaving him messages in there.

So, instead, he drops down onto the sofa with the lotus in his hands, and - opens it.

Slowly.

Methodically.

He flattens each layer and lays it out, and in the center of it all, there’s a message, all right.

 _H ~ A ~ P ~ P ~ Y ~ B ~ I ~ R ~ T ~ H ~ D ~ A ~ Y_ , it says, each letter written along an unfurled petal, fanning out in a circle. The letters are lovely, calligraphic. Penned by an artist’s hand. Or by an art-forger’s hand.

Happy -

Of all the -

“Stilinski,” he barks into his mobile phone, after speed-dialing the brat’s number and waiting impatiently until it’s picked up.

“Oh, hello, boss!” comes the obnoxious voice from the other end. “Did you get my present?”

“How’d you get in here?”

“Aw, shucks, it was just a bit of fun. Nothing serious. I didn’t break my perimeter, after all.”

“You can’t _burgle people’s houses_ as long as they’re within your perimeter, Stilinski.”

“But I didn’t take anything,” Stiles Stilinski protests.

Derek stays silent. For four seconds. Six. Eight. Ten -

“Okay, you got me. I took your tie-pin. The one with the wolf. It’s so very you.”

“It was. A souvenir. From my sister. Laura, remember her?”

“Yeah, I remember. Real precious. Look, I’m gonna return it, I promise, I just thought it would be a nice gesture if I got it fixed, since, you know, that case in which you wore it and it broke because you were, like, saving my life by tumbling down a mountain - ”

“Hill,” Derek automatically corrects. “It was a hill, Stilinski, and what you plan to do with my property once you’ve stolen it, no matter how noble, doesn’t excuse the fact that _you’ve stolen it_.”

“Wow. I love it when you italicize. Gets me all hot under the collar. Makes me wanna - ”

Derek hangs up. And slams the phone onto his table.

Then, after approximately thirteen minutes of staring at the lotus, and another seven minutes of refolding it along its original lines and putting it in the drawer with all of Stilinski’s other ‘gifts’ (oddly-shaped paperweights; a Canadian currency fiber; a plasticine model of Michelangelo’s David, but with Derek’s head; a lock-pick; a nineteenth-century cipher machine), Derek gets up and secures the perimeter. Checks all the locks. The motion-sensors. The camera feeds. Runs a sweep for bugs. Shuts down all possible entry points.

Of course, there isn’t any sign of an entry point, so he’s probably going to spend the night tormenting himself with how the hell Stilinski did it, this time. But, hey, at least it’s better than thinking about his supposed bosses down at the Bureau, and how great it’d feel to aim darts at their ugly mugs.

He settles down for a drink, whiskey cradled in one hand, and contemplates the New York skyline.

It’s just an hour past midnight, which means that Stilinski was the first person to speak to him on his birthday. As usual. He wonders why Stilinski makes such a big production out of it. It’s not like it’ll lessen the chances of Derek hauling Stilinski’s ass right back to jail at the slightest slip-up. Sentimentality has nothing to do with the job.

And the funny thing is that when Laura calls him in the morning, she’ll ask the same questions she always does, and will tell him to either start dating someone or get a pet (“for god’s sake, Derek, you need some company in that morgue-like apartment of yours”), but he still won’t tell her about the stray he _does_ have, that keeps dropping in, keeps fixing his broken things, keeps leaving recovered works of art in his study, with increasingly ridiculous notes attached. Such as, “This is the Monet stolen by Rouquet, asshole nearly ruined it,” and, “Am I in trouble with Upstairs, again? This is the Gauguin, by the way,” and, “Isn’t this beautiful? Couldn’t let it sit on the black market, not when your handsome face would light up like Christmas if you had it in your custody,” and, “Who said crime doesn’t pay? Oh, wait, you did,” and, “Yay! Look what Santa Stiles left in your stocking! The Viennese diamond! You know, you could just buy your own island nation and retire to it. With me.”

The hell does he need a pet for? He’s already got a cat. (Burglar.)

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

_Three years ago._

Donatella Versace’s party is well underway, as is the procession of devout fashion pilgrims moving into the main hall of her home, arching their necks like curious, over-dressed ostriches, vying to see the diamond vest on display.

It’s behind several inches of bullet-proof glass, surrounded by a motion-sensitive laser grid within the actual case, preventing any disturbance to the object, even were the glass to be penetrated. Derek’s had a hand in designing it, himself. He knows precisely the sort of thief (and the sort of  _lunatic_ ) likely to be targeting the vest; thus, he knows how to protect it.

And while the protection of private property isn’t usually within the purview of the FBI, the fact that one of the world’s most infamous art thieves is rumored to be attending the party is reason enough for Derek to be here, with several members of his team stationed strategically around the Versace mansion.

Derek’s stationed near the powder room. He’s in the sort of frivolous, unnecessarily form-fitting suit that belongs on a typical womanizer, swirling a glass of Green Dragon that matches the deep green of his jacket. He feels foppish and absurd, but this is the mission, and, well. He fits in. That’s the idea.

The two women by the door appear to be unarmed civilians, but Derek isn’t about to let his guard down. He knows very well that Stiles ‘The Slinky’ Stilinski has at least one female accomplice; she’s managed to stay under the radar, until now, but Derek is sure that this case will bring her into the light.

A gaggle of chittering socialites wafts its way past him, replete with perfume. Derek slides his hand into his jacket, resting it on his holster. The first woman is middle-aged, bangles clinking on her wrists, fingers entirely devoid of gun-calluses, dress too revealing to hide any weaponry or technology of note. Not a threat. The other three women are similar; none of them are threats.

“Oh! Excuse me,” says a husky, feminine voice from behind him, and Derek instinctively moves aside to let the girl pass. She’s in her early twenties, with long, lovely, stockinged legs and a strangely familiar gait -

Her turtleneck isn’t  _quite_  in season -

Derek has her slammed against the wall before she can take another step.

Everyone around them gasps. Scandalized, aristocratic gasps.

“Put it down,” he growls, hand closing around a too-masculine throat. An Adam’s apple bobs under the turtleneck, obvious beneath the relentless press of his palm.

“Put what down, Daddy?” purrs the girl, mascara-thickened lashes flicking up.

Derek’s blood boils. He can literally feel it bubbling in his veins. “The EMP device.”

The girl - boy - Stilinski - grins. And raises her - his -  _damn_  it - hands. “But I’m not carrying anything.”

“The hell you aren’t.” Derek forces Stilinski’s chin up, fingertips grazing the ends of that all-too-convincing hair. The wig’s a bob-cut, of all things. “Drop it.”

Stilinski’s eyes widen. “My skirt? Oh,  _Daddy_.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Why? You look amazing, by the way. Was it Allison who picked out your outfit?”

“Since when are you on a first-name basis with my agents?”

“Jealous?”

Derek shakes him. “Where. Is it.”

“Wanna do a body-check? Because I’m down with that. Or, heh, ‘up’ with that. See?” Stilinski tilts his hips forward, brushing his skirt-clad groin against Derek’s, and Derek doesn’t flinch back. He  _won’t_.

“You’re your own bloody female accomplice. Don’t humiliate yourself any further.”

“But what if I  _like_  being humiliated? Don’t you want to humiliate me, Daddy? I bet I’ve made you real mad. I’m a naughty girl, aren’t I? Naughty girls deserve to be punished.”

“Team,” Derek grits into his microphone. “You getting this? Spread out. Find out who else is here.”

“Nobody else,” says Stilinski, innocently. “Just me.”

Derek tightens his hold on Stilinski. And resolves himself to conduct a body-check, one-handed. As he slips his spare hand down Stilinski’s waist and up his skirt, Stilinski shivers and moans theatrically, and Derek feels himself flush. “Don’t.”

Stilinski’s eyes are dark, his mouth soft and rouge-red. He (miraculously) doesn’t say anything - merely tips his head back and watches Derek, from under his lashes. His breath stutters when Derek’s thumb sweeps his thigh.

Smooth. Too smooth. Shaved, and that’s -

That’s  _ludicrous_  -

“Uh,” says a tall, youngish guy in an artfully ripped denim tuxedo, materializing out of the gaping crowd. He’s got this mulish, good-samaritan-but-I-really-only-want-to-impress-the-girl expression on his face. Jackass. “Is this man bothering you, miss?”

“Oh, yes,” drawls Stilinski. “But I love it. So run along, now.”

The kid hovers for an anxious moment or two, but Derek ignores him. There’s nothing strapped under Stilinski’s skirt, other than... that which is anatomically unavoidable. There’s nothing hidden under his turtleneck top, either, other than a stuffed, lacy brassiere. The bastard’s thorough with his disguises. Of course he is. He’s a professional. If Derek hadn’t been tracking him obsessively for the better part of three years, he wouldn’t have recognized him in this disguise, at all.

“What did I tell you?” Stilinski purses his mouth; Derek blinks at it. “I don’t have anything on  _me_.”

It takes Derek a split second too long to recognize the faint emphasis on that last word - and in that split second, two very important things happen.

One, the kid in the denim tuxedo yanks something out of his pocket and triggers it. ( _Not a female accomplice, after all,_  Derek thinks.)

Two, the lights go out.

In the ensuing chaos, Stilinski slinks out of his hold like a sleek little cat, and kicks outward when Derek tries to hang onto him. There’s a buzz at Derek’s ear that quickly transforms into pain - fuck, he’s been tasered - and as he goes down, spine sparking with electrical shocks, Stilinski leaps to wrap his arms around Derek’s head and cushion his fall.

Caught by the one he was supposed to catch. It’s worse than ludicrous; Derek will never forgive himself for this.

“I’m sorry,” says Stilinski, panting. “I truly am. But you’ll be fine; I’ve tested this taser on myself.”

“Cr’zy,” Derek slurs, slack-jawed and semi-conscious. His face is buried in fake cleavage; he’s surrounded with Stilinski’s sickeningly floral scent. Is that Chanel? Jesus.

“Yeah. I know. Very mad scientist of me. But I’d never hurt you; you know that. I couldn’t.”

Derek grunts, disbelieving.  _He’s_  the one on the floor with muscles twitching like a dying fish.

“Sorry. But you were so perfect tonight, and I - you can’t blame me for taking a souvenir, can you?”

That’s when Derek realizes that the slight tug he’d felt at his waist was Stilinski taking off his belt. It slithers loudly as it’s pulled out of its hoops. “What - ”

“Mmm, another addition to my Derek Hale collection. My most prized collection, and that’s counting the Monets.”

“Stiles,” says the denim guy, warningly.

“Whoops, gotta run! There’s a diamond vest to steal, and I don’t want your agents getting their shit together before I do.” Stilinski swoops down to press his lips to Derek’s temple, hot and lipstick-tacky. His voice drops to an urgent whisper. “Thanks for the souvenir, babe. I’ll wrap it around my neck, the way you wrapped your hand around it, and then I’ll jack myself off. Again. And again. And again.”

Derek snarls - but then Stilinski’s standing up, chortling, dancing away.

“Goodbye, gorgeous,” he laughs, elf-like, and then he’s gone, and so’s his accomplice, and Derek’s just lying there, stupidly helpless, as the alarm goes off and women in high heels rush past him to the exit.

“Alpha?” crackles Derek’s ear-piece. It’s Allison Argent, sounding concerned. “Are you okay?”

“T’sered,” Derek manages, gritting his teeth and trying to get up, trying to speak. His tongue feels swollen and scalded, like it’s been burned. “Th’ vest - ”

“It’s gone, sir. Looks like EMP radiation wiped out the security system. Then it was just a simple smash-and-grab. We were here the whole time, but somehow, he broke the case, and - ”

“Tr’ce.”

“Yes, sir. The trace in the vest is active. If Stilinski doesn’t figure out that it’s there, we still have a chance to catch him. I’ve got Omega on it, sir.”

“G’d.” Scott McCall is an idiot, but he’s a ferocious, dogged tracker; he won’t stop once he’s caught the scent. An obedient wolfhound; that’s what he is.

“Should I send medics down there, sir?”

“N’g’tive. G’fter Om’ga.”

“Understood, sir. Over and out.”

Derek hauls himself to his feet. The world spins; he collides with the wall, but immediately rights himself, hands braced on the fancy, embossed wallpaper. The shapes of it curl against his palms, raised like scars. He reads them like Braille on the way out. The darkness of the mansion is empty; none of the guests are left.

When he makes it outside, Versace’s private security is milling about, raising a ruckus, and the local police is there, fucking up an already fucked-up process. Statements are being taken. Fashion icons and celebrities shiver in the night air, furred stoles across slender shoulders doing nothing to keep the chill out.

The FBI van has its back doors thrown open; Derek heads toward it. Smith, their bald, overly bulky technician, is fiddling with some wires. The surveillance monitors flicker, but refuse to come online. “Piece of shit,” Derek catches him muttering. “What, is one electromagnetic pulse enough to knock you out? Huh, baby? Thought you said you loved me long time. Guess you was a liar. Just like that chick down at Hooters.”

“Agent,” says Derek, his ability to speak thankfully restored, and Smith jumps to attention.

“Fuck! I mean - sir. I had to open the damn doors to see anything, the lighting’s shot. Not the best thing for security, I know, but - ”

“Start the backup generators. We need to track the vehicle Argent and McCall are in. Call the agency and get them to track the car, too; we may need more units on the scene.”

“Got it, sir. You think we’ll catch him, this time?”

Derek clenches his fists. “We have to.”

Turns out, dressing like a fop was worth it.

Because when they do bring Stilinski in, three hours later, he’s as bright-eyed and cavalier as ever, joking about how it was Derek’s sex appeal that got him caught, because he couldn’t leave without a souvenir, couldn’t leave without that ‘beautiful belt’. Even though,  _because_  of that delay, he ended up losing the diamond vest. Stilinski’s priorities will never make sense.

Stilinski sprawls in the back of the van, one stockinged leg pulled up, wig no longer on him, handcuffed wrists around his knee. They both know he could lock-pick the hell out of those cuffs, but he doesn’t, because Derek’s got a gun pointed at his head.

Not that it phases Stilinski. He chatters on, regardless. Maybe it comforts him that Smith’s driving, and not in here, with them. He seems to find Smith intimidating. It’s a strange realization, for Derek, knowing that a criminal trusts him. Prefers him.

“I just couldn’t help myself, you know? Danny was totally nagging me about it - don’t try matching that name on your databases, by the way, it’s just an alias - but seriously, what’d he expect? Sure, I went beyond the time limit by hanging back and molesting you, but  _damn_ , it was worth it.”

“Was it worth four years in jail?”

“Eh, I dunno. Depends. Will you let me keep the belt?”

“What?”

“I’m gonna be real lonely in there, just me and my right and/or left hand. I’m ambidextrous, as you well know; I’ve seen your files on me, and man, are they ever so flatteringly thorough. Anyway. I’ll need some company. If I’ve got something of yours, your remembered scent...” Stilinski closes his eyes, smiles. “It won’t be so bad.”

Derek stares. It’s beginning to dawn on him, in a rush of dizzying, incredulous horror, that maybe Stilinski wasn’t joking about Derek’s sex appeal, at all. Maybe he was never joking. Not once in all these years.

“Cat got your tongue?” Stilinski squints at him. “You are okay, right? No lingering effects from the taser? I bet you didn’t let any of the medics see you.”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, fuck. Your strong-and-silent routine is deeply sexy, not lying, but it’s also kind of a pain in the ass. And not in a good way, either. Do you  _have_  to neglect yourself? Is that part of your job description? I don’t see Scott acting like anything other than a wuss, when he’s in pain.”

“Since when are you on a first-name basis with McCall?” Even Derek isn’t on a first-name basis with his team; then again, he doesn’t believe in coddling them. Or in breeding familiarity, beyond the job.

“Ooh, jealous again? Don’t worry. Me and him, we were just talking baseball on the way here, in Allison’s car. Making polite conversation. You know. I only dirty-talk for  _you_.”

The gun’s handle is slick with sweat; Derek adjusts his grip. “Shut up.”

“Uh, no, I don’t think I will. You liked me today, didn’t you? All dolled up. I bet you thought my legs were pretty.”

That - that’s beside the point. At that moment, he’d thought Stilinski was a woman -

“Wow. Did I fry your circuits? Your heterosexuality circuits? My bad. Are you having a nervous breakdown, now? A midlife crisis?”

“I’m only thirty-five,” Derek says, for some reason. He has other things to say, ugly things, angry things, but none of them make it out of his mouth.

“And what a thirty-five it is, too. I’d love to sixty-nine that thirty-five. All night long.”

“Shut. Up.”

“Oh,  _yeah_. Show me who’s in charge, Daddy. Wanna gag me with that belt? It’s in my handbag.”

His. His handbag. Derek can’t pinch his nose while he’s holding a gun, but he wishes he could. “Stilinski. I’ve caught you. After nearly three years of chasing you.”

“Two years, ten months and eighteen days. Yeah, I know.”

“Shouldn’t you be upset about it?”

“I would be, if I thought prison could actually hold me, sure.”

“You - ” Derek huffs. He can’t deny the possibility that Stilinski could con his way out of a maximum-security facility. “Fine. Why don’t you try going straight?”

Stilinski raises an eyebrow. And glances pointedly down at his stockinged feet.

“Honest,” Derek corrects, quickly, uncomfortable with making any reference - deliberate or otherwise - to his captive’s sexuality. “Why don’t you... serve your time, earn your freedom and live a normal life? You’ve got plenty of skills. You could be an artist. You could  _teach_  art; you know more about it than our fucking consultants. You could - ”

“Are you  _worried_  about me? You’re such a sweetheart. Always knew you were.”

Derek scowls.

“Now, now, Robocop. Listen. You’re asking me to cage myself. Live a life of boredom. Clip my own wings. Why would I want to do that? When I can make a get-out-of-jail-free card for myself, anytime I like? No  _way_. I ain’t going proper.” Stilinski’s eyes gleam. “Unless you give me an incentive.”

“An incentive.” Derek is dreading this, already.

“Yeah. I could be one of your ‘fucking’ consultants. I like the fucking part, especially. Do you fuck your consultants?”

“I just arrested you. And you’re trying to cut a deal.”

Stilinski shrugs, careless and casual. “No time like the present. Also, I’m not just trying to cut a deal; I’m trying to get you to sleep with me.”

“No.”

“Oh, c’mon! It’ll be fun!”

“I don’t sleep with people for ‘fun’,” Derek lashes out, before he can even think about it.

Stilinski looks appalled. “Then what  _do_  you sleep with them for? Information? Oh my god, you totally sleep with them for information. You’re a grim, grim man. A sad man. Deprived man. Tragic, even. Perhaps mentally disturbed.”

“Be quiet.” Derek’s fingers are starting to ache on his gun; he shifts his grip, again. “You’re going to jail. And you won’t be getting out. I’ll have extra measures put in, just for you.”

“I feel so special. I do. Will you buy me a wedding dress, too? When I get out? Will you marry me and make an honest man out of me? I’d give it a try, for you.”

“Go to sleep. You’ll be grilled about your accomplice as soon as we get to HQ. And then...” Derek takes an exhausted breath. “You’ll be tried for your crimes. And you’ll pay for them.”

“And they say crime doesn’t pay. Well, you do, anyway.”

“Be. Quiet.”

Mercifully, Stilinski doesn’t say anything after that; he only smiles that teasing Mona Lisa smile, the one that always makes Derek want to  _hit_  something. It doesn’t help that Stilinski’s checking him out - obviously, blatantly checking him out - his eyes roving Derek’s body, lingering on Derek’s crotch, until Derek has to fight the urge to cover himself. Which is ridiculous, because he’s fully dressed.

When Stilinski’s hands drift up to his own throat, though, his lips parting and his (still mascara-heavy) eyelashes dipping, Derek snaps.

“Stop _touching yourself_ , for god’s sake, you’re in  _custody_.”

“Oh! Italics. I get the italics. I love your italics. Did I mention that, before?”

“Continuously. Every time we meet.  _Stop_   _that_.”

Stilinski brushes his thumb against his own neck, one last time, before returning his hands to his thighs. He rubs them back and forth, though, provocatively, and spreads his legs a little; the handcuffs jingle, like bracelets. Trust Stilinski to turn anything into a high-end accessory.

Derek wishes he could look away, but he can’t; Stilinski’s pulled enough Houdini stunts to make it impossible for Derek not to keep tabs on him, every step of the way. Hell, he won’t be able to relax even when Stilinski  _is_  at the FBI headquarters. Or behind bars. Fuck.

“The hell are you staring at, now?” he barks, when it becomes clear that Stilinski’s gaze is fixed on a spot just under Derek’s ear. There’s something weird about Stilinski’s eyes; they’re hotter, harder than they were a second ago.

“Hm? Nothing. Just admiring the hickey I left on you.”

The - “What.”

“The taser? It’s left this tiny... bruise, almost. Very charming.” Stilinski’s expression is fixed, alien, hungry. Different, somehow, from all his other flirtations; his voice is lower, thicker, more masculine. “It’s the first mark I’ve ever left on you.”

“And it’ll be the last.”

Stilinski hums noncommittally. “We’ll see.” The corner of his mouth quirks upward. “I’m almost glad you didn’t get that treated. Wouldn’t want anyone else touching it.”

“I’m not your property.”

“But you would be, if I stole you.”

Derek... doesn’t even know what to say to that. It’s so surreal. Everything about Stilinski is always surreal. Mind-boggling. Bizarre. Here Derek is, bringing Stilinski in after the longest manhunt in his career, and he can’t even bring himself to feel victorious. Sure, he feels the usual rightness of bringing a perp to justice, but - he’d expected to be more viciously satisfied. More triumphant.  _Something_.

“You could just admit that you’ll miss me, you know.” Stilinski’s words are hushed. And now he looks wistful, damn him, his moods as mercurial as ever.

Derek swallows. And tries to fix his face - whatever expression is  _on_  his face. “It’s only four years.”

“Oh, darling, every second spent apart from you is forever.”

Derek doesn’t move his gun.

They spend the rest of the drive in silence, looking at each other, because there’s nothing else to look at.

 

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

_Present day._

The ambulance rattles like a tin can on the way to the hospital; Stilinski’s bleeding out, and the damn thing won’t go any faster.

“Relax,” Stilinski rasps, like he doesn’t have two bullet-holes in his body - one in his upper torso, the other in his thigh. Derek wants to tell him to shut the fuck up, except that he’s terrified that if Stilinski stops speaking and passes out, he may never wake up again.

“ _You_  relax,” he retorts, almost accusingly, and Stilinski smiles a wry, wan smile.

“It isn’t as bad as it looks,” Stilinski assures him, “or I’d have passed out already.”

“The only reason you haven’t passed out is because they’ve bound your thigh wound so tight, your leg could pop right off at the knee.”

“Gee, thanks for that wonderful mental image,” Stilinski drawls - then coughs wetly, blood flecking his lips. “Fuck. Um. Guess the one in my chest got to my lungs?”

“Stop speculating. The doctors will have a look at you, soon.”

“Derek.” Stilinski’s voice is weak. Weaker than Derek’s ever heard it.

Derek sucks in a breath. “Yeah,” he says, his own heart hammering, like he’s the one that’s been shot.

“Kiss me. Please?” And now, Stilinski’s eyes are wider  _and_  wetter than Derek’s ever seen ’em. Too wide.

Derek snorts. “Are you still trying to con me, Stilinski?”

“Stiles. Call me Stiles. And kiss me.” Stilinski coughs again, maybe for show, maybe not. “It could be the last time.”

“Shut  _up_ ,” says Derek, finally, because it’s not even the first time. Not yet. Things like never having kissed a guy don’t enter into his mind; all he knows is that Stilinski’s asking this of him, the one thing that’s in his power to give, because he can’t give Stilinski the promise that everything will be all right.

Derek just smoothes a hand over Stilinski’s sweat-sodden hair, as carefully as he can, and leans down for a kiss.

It’s coppery and bitter, chapped and awkward, but Derek makes it as soft as he can, softer than anything he’s ever attempted in his life, soft enough to make Stilinski close his eyes and sigh.

“I’mma pass out, soon,” Stilinski mumbles. “’kay?”

“Okay,” says Derek, and for some reason, his eyes feel full and hot. The paramedic’s staring at them from the opposite seat, but Derek ignores her. He bends down to kiss Stilinski again, because it’s all he can do.

“Hey, a bonus.” Stilinski’s smile is vaguer, sleepier, but it’s still there. “You didn’t say my name, though.”

“Stiles,” he says, the name sticking in his throat - not because it feels strange there, but because it seems like it’s been a long time coming, that he should’ve used it before, and often. It feels like everything that’s passed between him and Stilinski, all these years, condensed into a single word.

“Awesome,” Stilinski whispers, still smiling, and passes out.

“His vitals are stable,” says the paramedic, out of nowhere, and that’s when Derek notices that he’s been grinding his teeth. Loudly.

“Damn right they are,” Derek says, and then he just sits there, his hands white-knuckled and folded futilely in his lap, studying Stilinski’s unconscious face like it’s the code to break into the world’s most secure vault.

Derek can’t take his eyes off Stilinski. Even now. Damn him.  _Damn_  him for getting away from Derek like this, for escaping like this, beyond the arm of the law and beyond anywhere Derek can reach him.

“If you don’t wake up,” Derek threatens, “I’m gonna torch that Gauguin.”

He doesn’t know if it’s his imagination that Stilinski’s heartbeat spikes.

 

*

He doesn’t burn the Gauguin. Even though it’s been four days since Stilinski was admitted to the hospital, and Stilinski still hasn’t woken up. Some of the doctors speculate that he never will. Derek doesn’t believe them.

Instead, Derek attends the hearing in which he argues for Stilinski to be freed from the requirements of keeping to his perimeter, that Stilinski be given his freedom.

He has McCall and Argent to testify in favor of Stilinski’s good behavior (neither of them mentions Stilinski’s tendency to pickpocket agents he doesn’t like). As for Derek, he doesn’t mention how so many of the recoveries he’s made are because Stilinski bent or outright broke the rules.

Stilinski’s results speak for themselves; nineteen high-profile captures and no less than twenty-seven recoveries of art thefts valued at over a minimum of one million dollars, each.

Stilinski is a real asset to the FBI. It’s time he was relieved of the rest of his sentence and recruited by the FBI as a free man, as a full-time consultant and a permanent fixture at the White Collar division.

The director of the FBI, who is in attendance, balks - but Derek points out to her that the only reason Stilinski is fighting for his life at this very moment is that he took two bullets  _for Derek_ , and if putting his life on the line to protect an FBI officer isn’t considered enough to free him, then what is?

Derek recounts the story from start to finish - how he and Argent and McCall had gone in after Matt Daehler, the most notorious forger on the international crime scene since Stilinski himself - with the difference that Daehler was also a wanted murderer, and Stilinski had never used violence in order to eliminate witnesses. (In fact, being the show-off that he was, he hadn’t eliminated any of them, at all.)

Daehler was dangerous, borderline sociopathic and somewhat obsessed with killing Derek, since Derek was the FBI officer that had gotten the closest to arresting him on numerous occasions. He and his goons had managed to imprison McCall and Argent in an attempt to force Derek to play his cards earlier than planned, because everyone knew that Derek was ferociously protective of his people and wouldn’t leave them in captivity if there was the slightest chance he could rescue them.

And so, when the trap worked and Derek was drawn in,  _despite_  knowing that it was a trap, Daehler thought he could bump Derek off.

What Daehler hadn’t counted on, however, was that Stilinski would turn up halfway through his megalomaniacal soliloquy and try to save Derek’s life, thereby ending up with two bullet-wounds and allowing Derek to disarm Daehler, hold him hostage in order to get past said goons, and free McCall and Argent, as well.

Technically, Stilinski had saved three FBI agents, not just one.

It ought to count for something.

At last, the hearing is over, and Derek’s throat is dry from all that talking. He steps out of the room to find Smith hovering nervously (excitedly? Derek can never be sure of the difference, with Smith) in the hallway.

“Stiles is up,” Smith bursts out, because he’s ‘Stiles’ to everyone on the team, now.

Derek doesn’t wait to hear the conclusion of the hearing before hightailing it to the hospital.

 

*

“Yo,” says Stilinski - Stiles - weakly, when Derek throws open his door, panting from a flat-out run. “Wow, you look even worse than I do. Haven’t you, like, shaved for the past couple days? Also, your eyes look like a raccoon’s. Haven’t you been sleeping?”

“You - ” Derek wants to pick him up and  _shake_  him, but also to (for some bizarre reason) hold him, so Derek settles for something in the middle and just grips Stiles’s shoulders, instead. “You’re awake.”

“Way to be stating the obvious. Awake and starved for junk food, lemme tell ya, the nurses here are nice but they won’t bring me anything but mulch. I am sad. Very, very sad. Hey,” Stiles brightens, “could you get me a quarter-pounder from the McDonald’s joint across the street? I can see it from the window and it’s  _killing me_. More than bullets ever could.”

“Don’t you ever shut up?”

“Why, what’re you gonna do about it?” Stiles smirks. “Kiss me?”

Shit. Derek had been hoping Stiles wouldn’t remember that. “That was an emergency.”

“And this isn’t? Stiles the Slinky, trapped in a boring hospital room? No locks to pick? No art to steal?”

“You’re going legal,” Derek informs him.

“Oh, really? Since when?”

“Since the hearing.”

“What hearing?”

“It just happened. I argued for your release.”

Stiles gapes at him.

“What? You saved the life of an FBI officer by endangering your own. There’s no way they won’t release you.”

“You. You argued for my release.  _You_. The guy who arrested me in the first place.”

“You’re the one who had to go and save my life.”

“Uh, you couldn’t just thank me the normal way? By, y’know, opening your mouth and saying ‘thank you’?”

“Thank you.”

And Stiles is gaping again. Then, shaking his head as if to clear it, he says: “This is too good to be true. Things this good don’t happen to me, man.”

“They do now.”

“Next thing I know, you’ll be going down on bended knee and asking me to join you in a civil union.”

“No union of ours could ever be civil.”

Stiles laughs. “Ha! You betcha. But still.” Stiles glances away, briefly; his fingers worry at the white hospital blanket. “Thank  _you_ ,” he mumbles.

“Don’t thank me yet. The results of the hearing aren’t in, but even if - when - they go the way I think they will, you won’t be able to steal again.”

Stiles winks. “Not a problem. I’ve already made the greatest theft of my life.”

Derek straightens up, instinctively on alert. “What? What theft?”

“I’ve stolen your heart,” Stiles says, earnestly, and doesn’t even have the decency to blush as Derek stares and stares and stares at him.

“You haven’t,” says Derek, hoarsely.

Stiles taps his own chin thoughtfully. “No? I was so sure... but hey, more fun for me, right? Guess my career in crime ain’t over, yet. I won’t rest until I have what I - heh - came for.”

“Go the fuck to sleep,” Derek says, roughly, standing and tucking the sheets tighter around Stiles, the better to keep the asshole still. “You’re too pale.”

“Aww. You regular mother hen, you. You just get cuter and cuter.”

Derek glowers - and then, just to be contrary, just to shut the brat  _up_  - darts down to press a firm kiss to Stiles’s mouth.

There’s no tang of blood, this time. Just soft lips parted in surprise.

Derek pulls back, quickly, before Stiles comes to his senses and tries to do something clever with that damnable silver tongue of his.

Stiles gawks at him.

“No pickpocketing the nurses,” Derek warns him, and gets the hell out.

 

*

Later that day, when Derek is in his office, the hearing concludes that Stiles Stilinski is to be freed. No conditions of bail. Nothing.  _Free_.

Argent and McCall show up at his door, practically squirming with glee, to share the news.

Derek doesn’t join them in their enthusiastic back-slapping and celebratory whoops of joy, but he does smile, hiding it behind his mug of coffee and picking up the origami parrot Stiles had left on his desk just a week earlier.

He’ll never tell Stiles that he still has that goddamn lotus.

It’ll make him seem sentimental.

 

* * *

 

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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